


All the Words Inside My Head

by DiNovia



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, POV First Person, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, cat grant pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiNovia/pseuds/DiNovia
Summary: For the prompt: The trope-ist tropefilled reason for bed sharing possible. Much bonus if there is nasty wonderful dirty smut. Rough and desperate 8DI'm hoping we're-on-the-run bedsharing coupled with the sex pollen trope qualifies as the "trope-ist tropefilled reason for bedsharing possible." I cannot help that this appeared in my head as first person POV, too.Merry Christmas, Octo! (I had so much fun writing this.)





	All the Words Inside My Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SupergaySupercat (octoplods)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoplods/gifts).



It’s been two weeks and I still have no idea what happened. One minute we were in the town car on the way back from that ridiculous hearing about alien rights, and the next? Andre was dead, the town car was a pile of twisted metal, and you were wrapped around me, eyes burning like some avenging angel.

The fight outside the mangled remains of my Lincoln was short and brutal. Oh, you didn’t kill anyone, of course, though I saw the way the muscles in your jaw moved when you found Andre’s body. You’re a better person than I am, darling. If it had been me with your powers, I would have murdered them all where they stood.

The troops - black clad and anonymous, as per usual - managed one point-blank shot with some sort of asinine ray gun apparently poached from the latest Lucas blockbuster. The purple light hit us both and did nothing, as far as I could tell.

We’ve been on the run since then, hunted, unable to return to either of our homes or lives, not certain who we can trust. You destroyed both of our cell phones within a block of the attack, and we’ve been using pre-paids stolen from the backrooms of department stores to reach out to anyone who will answer - for support, for information, for something to quench the fear.

You wanted to leave immediately, to take me somewhere safe where these low-budget stormtroopers couldn’t reach me. I won’t leave my son, so we’re at an impasse.

They have him, apparently. Your foster mother and maybe your sister, too, though we’re not 100% certain there. She might be underground, unreachable while she tries to fix things from the inside. At least, that’s what you’re hoping.

We’re “off-the-grid” in a way that I know eats at your conscience - stealing the things we need, sleeping in empty hotel rooms we’ve broken into using your x-ray vision and superior strength. I only had two hundred in cash on me; you had eleven dollars and forty-two cents. I know you’re keeping a tab in your head, all the places we’ll have to repay when this is over. I’m just grateful your desire to protect me outweighs your law-abiding instincts at the moment. We won’t last long without food or shelter.

We catch bits of news when we can. It’s grim. Your alter ego is being blamed for Andre’s death and my disappearance, Superman has been taken into custody in Metropolis (Lois must be beside herself), and there are riots breaking out in every major city, between aliens and alien-rights activists and the government's goon-squad, as yet unidentified.

The fear and sadness in your eyes when we watch makes me ill. It’s all so much noise to me - I know humanity’s arc toward justice is long and fraught with brutality - but the terror affects you so deeply, I turn it off after I have the gist of things.

Clearly, you were the target of the attack. I was collateral damage, or maybe a bonus, if they’d managed to kill me. I’m pro-alien rights, after all, and not one to shut up about it. I see the wheels turning in your head all the time, trying to figure out a way to protect me and to fix this, wondering how you’re going to make everything alright again. Your guilt is so obvious, it’s the symbol stamped onto your chest now that the seal of the House of El is too dangerous to wear.

I dyed my hair a week ago - a hideous shade of nut brown too dark for my complexion, but we were attracting attention on the lightrail. You may have no trouble blending in, but I’ve never had to, which makes me a liability to this half-assed plan of ours. You suggested the change with no trace of your trademark hesitancy, holding a bag of off-the-rack Old Navy clothes you’d stolen to make the transformation complete. I agreed only if you’d finally divest yourself of those useless glasses.

You pulled them off so quickly, I wasn’t prepared.

I’ve been a wreck ever since.  

We’ve had our first bit of luck today. You’ve managed to get in touch with Winn using one of the burner cells. You don’t have much time to talk, but his instructions are clear. “Stay low. Don’t get caught. And don’t hurt _anyone_ ; they’ll use it against you.”

Still no news about your sister.

Afterward, I use the same phone to send a text to Carter.

**_I’m alive. I’m safe. Don’t worry. I love you._ **

He responds within seconds, using the code I taught him so I'll know it’s him.

**_Same, Momma._ **

Momma with an O and three Ms - a tragedy of a word no one else would ever question. I press the phone to my chest for a moment before you gently take it from me and incinerate it on the sidewalk, your heat-vision the quickest means to hiding our tracks.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grant,” you say, and you’re so genuinely regretful of that one tiny, necessary act, I almost cup your cheek in my hand.

I don’t. I _can’t_.

We’re exhausted, both of us, so you find a passable hotel at the edge of the convention center district with an unbooked room on the top floor. You jimmy the safety window so it opens wide enough to let us both in, then go straight for the door, locking it and moving the dresser with the tacky mahogany veneer in front of it, too. The same old routine.

You check the rest of the room - we allow ourselves only one light, which you turn on - then nod at me, satisfied I’ll be safe for a few minutes alone. I slip my backpack, another gift from Old Navy, off my shoulders and drop it on the end of the bed.

“I’m going out to get food,” you tell me, standing at the window again. “I won’t be long. Call if you need me.” Then you flip the hood of your black hoodie up over your blonde hair and dart into the night sky.

This, too, is the same every night. You go out for exactly thirty minutes while I shower, change my clothes, and wash the dirty ones in the sink, hanging them to drip-dry in the bathroom when I’m finished. When you return, we’ll eat in silence, watch approximately three minutes of today’s news, and then try to sleep.

Sometimes God smiles on me, and we have a queen double, a bed for each of us. God must hate me tonight because there’s only a king - not even a couch - and I’m sure I won’t sleep at all. All I can think of, all I’ve been able to think about for days now, is how I feel when I’m lying next to you, how much I want you, how much I want you to want me.

It’s inappropriate, of course. It’s _worse_ than inappropriate; it’s fucking _criminal._  Here you are, stuck with me like an anchor around your neck, trying to save us both _and_ figure out what’s going on, while I spend every night fighting to keep my hands to myself. The feelings themselves aren’t new, of course. You’ve been a problem for me since the day I hired you, with your goddamned Pollyanna-inspired kindness and those ridiculous beaming smiles you flash at everyone.

But - until now - you’ve been a problem I’ve been able to control. I’m your boss and mentor; you’re my protégé. There’s a strict contract in that arrangement, one that demands I not take advantage of you and the generosity of your heart. Whatever little crush you may have, I have no right to act on it, no right to leverage it for my own gratification.

Now, however, something’s wrong. It’s getting harder and harder not to cross those final lines between us and I don’t know if it’s because of the circumstances or if something else is in play. It’s not entirely unheard of for two people to be thrown together during a crisis, and this catastrophe certainly qualifies. I’m familiar with crises, though, and I’ve been capable of weathering them professionally in the past, no matter how dire.

This feels different, like I’m two drinks past my limit and ready to dive. The problem is, I haven’t _had_ anything to drink. Not in months, not since that green tea and avocado toast cleanse you put me on in May, and the M &Ms you started stocking in my ice bucket. So why? Why is it so hard to resist you now?

With the minutes ticking away, I realize I need to shower, at least, before you get back. I tuck the problem of you back into the narrow little vault in my heart where it belongs, fill the sink with soapy water and today’s uninspiring outfit, then step into the shower stall.

It’s minimally stocked with generic soaps and lotions - no doubt the kind you use with abandon - but the water heats up quickly enough. When I step under the spray, however, everything becomes exponentially worse. The temperature of the water against my skin, the feel of it sliding down my body - it’s as if my nerve-endings have startled awake after a shockingly long dormancy. Waves of fire and ice buffet me, blood throbs between my legs, and all I can think about suddenly is you beneath me in that bed in the other room… me inside you… you screaming my name…

I want to touch myself but I force myself not to. You’ll be back soon and I’m an adult, dammit! I can control this - I _have_ to control it.

“Miss Grant?” You’ve cracked the bathroom door a sliver to whisper at me. “I’m back. I have dinner.”

My thighs clench at the sound of your voice. I stifle a groan. “I’ll be right out,” I tell you, and I breathe again only when the door clicks shut.

Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, hair still damp, my ruthless determination back in place. You’ve moved the pine desk away from the wall so we both can sit comfortably to eat, you in the desk chair and me at the end of the bed. I almost laugh when I see what you’ve brought for me tonight - a Whopper Jr. with cheese sits atop what is probably the most expensive salad Burger King offers. Your own bag, likely filled with multiple orders of fries and three or four of the high-end bacon cheeseburgers, by the smell of it, sits unopened. You sip from a large, hideously pink strawberry shake.

I raise an eyebrow at you. There’s no matching cup and straw for me. “And what am I supposed to drink, pray tell?” I ask.

You produce a bottle from behind your back without a word. It’s a mid-range red zin, decent vintage, known to be peppery on the tongue and smooth going down. It’s both a touching gesture and the last thing I need right now.

I’m going to drink it, of course. I’m not stupid and, if nothing else, I might actually get some sleep.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask, taking my seat. Then hope flares. “Did you hear from Alex?”

The question stuns you for just a second, then you shake your head no, your shoulders hunching forward.

“It’s an apology,” you say. “For getting you caught up in all of this?” You worry your lip for a second, then look away from me. “You’d be safe at home if it wasn’t for me,” you add softly.

“Apology not accepted,” I say, and my razor-sharp tone draws your eyes in a snap. “If I weren’t with you right now, Kara, I’d be a prisoner with Carter,” I explain gently. “Safe? Temporarily maybe, as long as I had value to them. But I’d much rather be a thorn in their sides than a pawn used against you. Whatever the cost.”

You take your seat slowly, and the springs of the old chair squeak in protest.

“I…” The look of consternation on your face is endearing. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Of course not,” I say, using my best haughty tone, the one I reserve for errant board members and misbehaving supervillains. “I’m the brains of this outfit. You’re just the muscle.” I look at the bottle in your hand. “Speaking of, I suggest you figure out a way to get into that wine before I send you out for an opener.” I wink at you, and add, “Chop chop,” for good measure.

You blink at me twice before a smile pulls at your lips. I frantically try to think of anything but kissing them… and fail.

“Yes, Miss Grant,” you say, and you drop your milkshake on the table. With both hands free, you make quick work of the bottle, twisting the top off cleanly at the neck, glass and all. You remove the paper shield from one of the water glasses these hotels always have, pour four fingers of wine into it, and thunk it down in front of me.

“It might need a minute to breathe,” you say, winking back. The sheer audacity of the act blasts through every wall I’ve built around this growing need for you like a gasoline explosion, ostentatious in a colorful and dramatic way.

 _It and me both_ , I think.

I clean up the remnants of our dinner while you’re in the bathroom freshening up and secretly drying my laundry with your heat-vision. I haven’t figured out how you do it without melting things or setting everything on fire, but you’ve been doing it since we began this little adventure, of that I’m sure.

When you’re through, I take the small ziplock with the collection of toiletries you’ve purloined for me into the bathroom, and brush my hair and teeth. I look at myself critically in the mirror, under the horrible lights. My darker hair accentuates the circles under my eyes, and there’s very little I wouldn’t give for some foundation or my Louboutin lip créme, but I’m pragmatic enough to realize how the lack of both benefits me. I look more like an overworked soccer mom than the Queen of All Media, and if that makes us safer, even a little bit, I’ll die before you’ll hear me complain.

Back in the room, I pour myself a second glass of wine and drink it angrily as we watch our nightly three minutes of hate. When the anchor of Channel 13 - not _my_ channel, thank God - makes a plea for National City to report any sightings of you to the local police, I stab the remote, turning him off in mid-sentence.

“Fucking asshole,” I swear, tossing the remote on the bedside table. “How dare he?”

“The media’s being fed,” you whisper, and I wonder how you’re holding up seeing National City turn on you. Again. “I think my sister’s agency was taken over by an anti-alien faction of the government.” When I look at you with wide eyes, you shrug. “We had a scare last year, but we thought putting Lucy in charge would stop it from happening again.”

“Lucy Lane?” I ask, shocked to my toes. “That’s why she returned to the military?”

You nod. “The anti-alien faction is run by her father.”

“And you thought Sam would stay away when you made Lucy the director,” I surmise. “It sounds like he and Katherine might be cut from the same cloth. Putting me in charge of anything only encourages her bad behavior.”

That gets a rueful chuckle out of you. “Don’t remind me,” you say, rolling your eyes. You flash a sideways smirk at me and I barely keep myself from reaching out to run my fingers through your hair.

“We should get some sleep,” I say hoarsely, downing the rest of my wine in one swallow. I pray it knocks me out.

“Okay,” you agree slowly, suddenly uncertain. I don’t reassure you.

We stand and you pull back the covers while I retrieve my backpack from the foot of the bed. I pack my freshly dried clothes, my toiletries, and the hotel soaps inside, and set the thing on the bedside table, ready to be snatched up at a moment’s notice. Getting into a bed fully dressed took some getting used to, at first, but it’s saved us twice already. _It’s a brave new world,_ I think, arranging my feet so my running shoes don't clunk together. I curl onto my side, facing safely away from you, and tug the blankets over the upper half of my body.

“Goodnight, Kara,” I whisper, my heart in my throat.

Your weight makes the other side of the bed dip, and I feel the blankets move as you cover yourself, too.

“Goodnight, Miss Grant,” you whisper back, and you switch off the light.

Two hours later, maybe three, I can’t tell, a dream wakes me. And not just any dream. I’m on the verge of coming and coming hard. My clit throbs in time with my pounding heart and my nipples ache to be touched. Interrupted images of you in the midst of orgasmic release fade from behind my eyelids.

I pant, painfully awake, almost in tears with the desperation of my arousal, only to find you curled up around me. You’re blissfully asleep and unaware of my predicament even though every touch of your skin on mine, every breath you take, every small movement makes me burn.

Thinking I might finally go fully and permanently insane if I allow this to continue, I try to relax, forcing my body to unclench, forcing myself to breathe deeply, to push back the sensations. It’s not working. Wave after wave of gooseflesh rushes over my skin and the deep breaths push my nipples against your arm or the blanket, making them ache even more. Images from the dream - of you over me, of your mouth on me, of your head thrown back in wanton abandon - taunt me mercilessly. My body sings with need.

I don't know what to do and my frustration breaks from me in a single strangled sound that wakes you immediately, your body tensing with adrenaline and fear.

"What's wrong?" you whisper. I can almost feel your eyes darting back and forth in the darkness, searching for the threat.

I don't answer, _can't_ answer. The desire seething in my body is so intense, I can't speak. I may whimper, though I’ll never admit to such a thing out loud.  

You raise up on one elbow to get a better look at me. You don’t mention our intimate proximity.

"Miss Grant?" you ask, gripping my arm, unaware of the effect of your touch. "What is it?" Your battle-readiness relaxes with no evidence of immediate danger, but your protective streak is and always will be a thousand miles wide.

I gasp as your fingers tighten against my skin, grimacing with the effort of not crying out. "Need..." My voice is hard, low, and frantic. "Need you..."

It takes a moment, but understanding finally dawns. "It's okay," you whisper, gently turning me onto my back. You ease the hem of my shirt up over my belly, ever ready to be of service, no matter the task. "It's okay..."

I shake my head, clenching my eyes against this relentless hunger. "It’s not right," I whisper harshly, stopping your hand where it is, not daring to say more.  

"It’s the beam from the attack,” you explain. “Remember the bluish light? I think it was a type of kryptonite and they thought it would make me evil. Except it hasn’t. It hasn’t affected me at all. Or maybe it has; I can’t tell. But the important thing is, it might be affecting you.”

I struggle to open my eyes, to understand what you’re telling me. “What?”

“Without Alex’s help, the people who took over might be mixing things together in her lab they shouldn’t be, with unintended consequences. Some types of kryptonite affect humans, too. They may not know that.”

“And there are types of kryptonite that affect... desire?”

You nod. “Some enhance aggression, like the red did with me; some lower inhibitions or affect sexual preference. One acts like LSD does in humans, giving the Kryptonian exposed really wild hallucinations.”

“Will…” I swallow hard, and bite back a groan as another wave of arousal courses through me. “Will it go away? On its own?”

“I don’t know. We’d need Alex to tell us.”

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes and spill over my temples in scalding rills. "I’m not sure I can wait it out," I admit, covering my eyes with my hands. “It’s so strong…” I'm embarrassed - humiliated, really - and I shudder against your side, holding onto what’s left of my control by the skin of my teeth. You gather me into your arms, hushing me, murmuring softly to me.

"Shhhh..." you breathe. "It'll be okay. Please, Miss Grant. Cat. Let me help you..." You brush your fingertips across my cheek and it feels like streaks of magma, burning me alive. “We'll be quiet,” you promise. "No one will ever know."

Unable to go on as I am and unable to see any way - short of death - to stop what I’m feeling, I finally relent, nodding sharply. Defeated, I cover my eyes with my arm.

"I'm sorry," I whisper bleakly. "I've never- This is-" I have no words for this. I've never felt anything like it. My desire is a burning sea and it's pulling me under. Soon it will swallow me whole.

You tug my shirt up further and press your mouth to my ribcage. I buck against you. "It's okay," you soothe. "I'll take care of you. It'll be alright." You push my bra out of the way, take my nipple into the searing heat of your mouth. I hiss as if branded.

I fumble my jeans open and your hand wriggles inside them. You graze me with the backs of your fingers. I gasp and lurch toward the touch, wanting more. Your fingers delve more deeply and you find me wet and swollen.

"God, I wish I could taste you," you breathe but we both know there's no time for that. You fill me with your fingers, slipping into me quick and hard. My hips rise to meet you. I want to feel you deeper inside me, harder, and harder still. I want you to fuck me.

I spread my legs in utter surrender.

"So beautiful," you breathe, and I do my best to stifle my moans, twisting my head to the side to bury my face in my pillow. "Sweet Rao, Cat, you're so beautiful..."

On your third thrust inside me, my back arches completely off the bed. By the fourth, I'm stifling my cries against your shoulder, pressing my mouth there in some semblance of a kiss. On the fifth, I come apart in your arms, white-hot and electric and completely undone, biting you to stop my screams. If you were anyone else, my teeth would be hitting bone.

You throw your head back at that exact moment and make a strangled sound, like pleasure and pain mixed. You shudder against me, your fingers still inside me, and then collapse across me. Your breathing is ragged.

"I love you so much..." you murmur weakly, pressing sweet kisses to my abdomen.

"No," I sob, turning my face away from you in shame. "Don't... Not after  _that_..."

You slip out of me slowly and rise up, cupping my cheek in your palm, fingers still wet with me. The scent of my arousal mixed with yours makes me flutter. I try to tell myself I can’t possibly want you again. It’s a lie.

You turn me gently so you can see my eyes. I squeeze them shut.

"Look at me," you say softly. When I don't, you order me. "Cat, look at me right now." I open my eyes slowly, afraid of what I'm going to see. Disgust would be bad enough. Pity would destroy me.

"Thank you," you say. "Thank you for letting me be a part of that. You were so… so..."

"I was awful!" I cry, too ashamed to let you find whatever pretty word you’re searching for. "I tried to ignore it. I’ve shoved it away for days, thinking I was going crazy or worse. I’m so sorry, Kara. I had no right to ask this of you. It wasn’t fair."

You shake your head. "Apology not accepted,” you say, throwing my own words back in my face. “You were _breathtaking_. It was my _honor_ to touch you like that.” Your eyes plead with me. “Don't you understand, Cat? I love you. I think maybe I always have. Everything you do is beautiful to me."

"Even that?" I look away from you again.

"Especially that!” You catch my eye and crack a tentative smile. "Or didn't you notice that I came, too - without even being touched?"

My ego rallies a little with that revelation. "Did you?"

Your grin is very white in the darkness. "Yep," you say, and the pride in your voice can’t be any more obvious. If you could, I think you’d wear it as a badge.

"Oh." I've never seen you smug before. I like it. Maybe more than I should.

"Yeah, big O!" you tease, kissing my forehead while running your fingers through my hair. I can tell by your frown you still aren’t used to the color. After a moment, you ask, "Do you think you can get back to sleep?"

I panic, remembering where we are and what we’re doing, how much danger we’re in and how little we can afford even minor distractions. And this was no minor distraction. "Oh my God!  Kara, are we-"

You stop my mouth with our first kiss, urgent and sweet and brave. It curls my toes.

“We're okay,” you tell me, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. "We're going to be okay." You pull me into your arms, nuzzle my forehead. "Sleep if you can," you urge. “We’ll have to leave in a few hours.”

With the wildfire inside of me temporarily satiated, I find I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. "Let me… I want to touch you, Kara,” I say sleepily.

You shake your head indulgently at me as I drift off. "Someday maybe," you say softly, kissing my shoulder. “When this is all over. If you remember.” There’s a heartbeat’s worth of silence, and then you whisper, “I hope you remember.”

“I will,” I breathe. “I promise, I will.” I sink into a peaceful bubble of sleep, the first I’ve had for weeks, then inhale sharply, rousing just enough to say one last thing.

“I love you, too, Kara…”

Your gasp is the last sound I hear.

**Author's Note:**

> The ray was a combination of periwinkle kryptonite (which lowers inhibitions) and other unnamed components that were intended to make Kara go on a rampage, but because Lane's idiots are stupid, what they accidentally mixed up was something that switched on the sexual pleasure centers in the human brain. 
> 
> The only effect it had on Kara was to give her a boost of confidence.
> 
> Cat's feelings for Kara are real, and in my headcanon, she will remember. 
> 
> She promised, didn't she? ;)


End file.
